[b]Part 10[/b] So this time, for real tho: Their moms are heavy, stage set, bands were ready, There’s vomit in the shitter already, arms spaghetti, Their purpose, in service of king petty, to drop combos, But they keep on forgetting the controls, The home crowd throws some ‘Wows!’ They know the ‘how’ but Expert mode won’t allow, Broken vows and lots of buttons missed somehow, The song is drowned, rhyme’s done, prose time now! Snap back to reality, where Barming was having a tough time against Larry the Bandit in a one on one game of Guitar Band, struggling on just the very first song, Muse’s Knights of Cydonia. “AAAAH AAAAH AAAAH!” Larry called triumphantly. “AAAAH AAAAH AAAAH!” “You know,” Barming snapped, “no-one’s going to know what the hell you’re doing without the song for reference.” He sweated furiously, holding down fret buttons and waiting for the notes to arrive. They already had, because of course, with those vocals is when the strumming begins. “Good thing it’s up there, then,” Larry replied, pointing to the post’s URL bar. “Can I- -blam!- SAKE get a different guitar or something?” Barming struggled with the sweaty, greasy, slippery plastic mess in his hands. “The strum bar is stuck in place, I have to tug it violently to get it to even return to the default position.” “Someone’s tugging something violently,” Lady Margaryan purred from the side. “And look!” Barming snapped as the lady flashed her boobs at her husbands. “Even when I press the damn buttons at the right time, the guitar still detects hits afterwards and loses me the combo!” “We’re playing the game just fine,” Larry argued. “You’re the one who wanted to use your Guitar Hero World Tour guitar from 2008. Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work.” “How was I supposed to know?!” Barming raged. “I haven’t touched the damn thing in half a decade! Can I please have a new one?” “And how do you suggest we do that?” Larry asked with a sigh. “Where the hell is going to stock a plastic videogame guitar at this time of night, in this neighbourhood?” “eBay!” Barming bayed. “And we’ll have to wait for delivery,” Larry added. “I’d rather get this done now.” “Okay, fine, fine, whatever. I’m probably going to lose my shit with this thing in a minute anyway and break it on a rock or something. What were the conditions for my loss again?” “Now that’s a good question,” Larry considered. “Did we even come up with anything?” “I don’t know,” Barming said. “Someone needs to hit ctrl+f.” “And hit ctrl+f someone did,” Larry said. “Um… no. No loss conditions.” “Ah, ok. Then I surren-” “BUT.” Larry began. Rickety Park snorted. Because he’s the youngest, no other reason. “But… yours was a pretty substantial gain for you, if you won. So… something substantial for me, or us…” “Uh…” Barming said cautiously. “I will… be your band manager.” “Hmmm.” “Is that an affirmative ‘hmmm’?” “No, it’s pensive. Hmmmm.” “...And that?” “Still pensive,” Larry said. “I will ...do your Thorn bounty.” “They won’t take kindly to Desticle talk here,” Larry pointed out. “But, they… they could decide on your forfeit.” “What?” Barming gulped. “No. Oh, no.” “How about it, folks?” Larry asked you. “Barming’s guitar is malfunctioning, and he has no forfeit… yet. And he’s ...well, he’s given up, really. What shall we do with him?” “You’re leaving this on a cliffhanger?” Barming asked. “What if nobody gets this far? What if nobody can be bothered with anymore?” “Then I guess your forfeit will be instantaneous… like… global time-freezing.” “Which… is a forfeit for all of us , really,” Barming argued. “I don’t think that’ll be a good idea.” Larry shrugged. “‘Sup to them.”

[b]Part 9[/b] Their moms are heavy, stage set, bands were ready, There’s vomit in the shitter already, arms spaghetti, Their purpose, in service of king petty, to drop combos, But they keep on forgetting the controls, The home crowd throws some ‘Wows!’ They know the ‘how’ but Expert mode won’t allow, Broken vows and lots of buttons missed somehow, The song is drowned, rhyme’s done, prose time now! I should write more raps. Anyway, yes, I tell a lie, they hadn’t started it yet. Barming glanced around the fire at his Avengang of Thrones Assembled, or his ATA. Not really. Just… Game of Thrones parody characters. No, I’m not going to write one. Not any time soon, anyway. But this was it for Barming. And he damn well knew it. Didn’t stop him trying to weasel his way out, of course. “Seriously, anyone else?” “You’re the king’s… well, not son actually, but ...his… favourite man,” said Ded Park’s head. “It should be y-” His daughter Salsa, as well as Toffrey and Cerveysays, looked on as Linen Payninthearse shut him up for good. “Well, that I get,” Barming strutted, his gleaming armour reflecting the firelight. “But I’m sure some of you are better at Guitar Band.” “As fictional characters, we hardly have the tools you do,” Tiramasu added. “Your hands are real.” “No, they’re not!” “But you’re based on a real person.” “You’re all based on ...fictional characters, who are in actual fact based on bloody kings and queens from the War of the Roses!” Barming protested. “Dead kings and queens,” the Pimp countered. “Your inspiration is very much alive, as evidenced by our existence and adventures.” “Gr,” Barming said. “Huh. Well, okay. I’ll do my best. But Expert’s gonna be a bitch.” There was a shonking sound behind him, and he turned around: the bandit leader stood before him, wielding his axe, which is a nickname for a guitar. “Y’ready?” “I don’t even know what song we’re playing,” Barming snapped. “All in good time,” the leader grinned slyly. “It’ll be played by my band.” “Wait, what?” “Oh yes,” the leader (let’s just call him Larry) beamed. “We’ve got Dom on drums and Chris on bass, and some fourth guy I’m not sure what his name is on keyboard. We are the Bandit Band, and we’re here to kick your collective arse.” “Fun fact:” Chris began with an awkward colon. He’d just had a lot of curry. “We only became bandits to call ourselves the Bandit Band.” “That or the Brigand Band,” Dom added from behind his boxes, which were now evidently drums. “Or the Band of Brigands. Or Band of Bandits. Or Band-it.” “Well, not that last one,” Larry said. “Nobody banned anything.” “Well, they’re trying to band- uh, ban being an emo,” Dom said. “Punishable by… adventures and shenanigans that you never take part in?” Barming frowned. “You?” “The defendant,” Tiramisu pointed out. “In this case, Prince Gary.” “Ah, right,” Barming nodded. “Well, then, chaps… Time to rock out with our socks on.” “It’s late afternoon in August,” Sandy ‘The Mound’ Clegleg soured. “Nobody’s wearing socks.” Aryakiddinme scowled up at him. “Lots of people are wearing socks.” “Lots of -blam!-s.” “One thing you should know before you fully accept the challenge,” Barming began. “When I beat you and you have to join us…” He turned to his Squidtastic pal I’d totally forgotten about. “Uh, does emo boy have dragons?” “No,” the squid said. “Dragons are fictional.” Daeniedason shook her head. “Really shouldn’t have brought all us Thrones characters in if you wanted to make that joke.”

[b]Part 8[/b] “Good golly gosh,” Barming quivered. “Quite so,” Tiramisu said, his lip curling into a delighted grin. “The things this girl squeals in Valerie-Ian with the right lips on her -blam!-… It would take a thousand Wasters a thousand years to produce such elegance.” D’nowhatIcalledherlasttimeeither let slip an impish grin, similar to the grin the Imp himpself currently wore. “If you’ve done dirtying my sons’ ears before bedtime,” Cerveysays snarled. “They’re my sons,” their brother Laime said. “Not yours.” “Quiet, King’s Layer!” Toffrey snapped. “No-one needs to know.” “But now everyone does,” muttered Ded Park. “And I didn’t even have to d-” An arrow tore through the canvas behind the Warbler of the North, hit him in the head, and knocked it off. Yes. It was a pretty strong arrow. “AMBUSH!” cried Cockweasel of House Knobgoblin, because that’s what I’m calling him now. The not actual retinue rose readily to their r- ...feet. Rides? Maybe. Anyway, they ran out of the tent. Barming stared about in alarm as a dozen figures appeared on the ridges around them. He swallowed dryly as they sort of formed in view against the pitch dark sky, except for a bloody great moon the size of half the sky because these scenes need to be well lit. A series of silhouettes formed in the half-light (3?) garbed (Gaben?) in the scruffiest (nah, I got nothin’) of apparel. Their blades were crude but very pointy indeed and probably sharp too, and one appeared to be sitting down behind some boxes. “Gang of Thrones!” Barming yodelled. “We’re right here, you numpty.” “Oh, right. Sorry. Anyway, uh, drawer swords!” So they did, each pulling an open box of wood with handles and sliders from their sides, before realising this probably wasn’t the best idea to be fighting against dudes with actual swords that could cut through drawer swords probably quite easily. “M’liege,” said Meow Park. Cat. “They have us outnumbered and outsourced. I mean outsworded.” “Outsorted?!” Baelful laughed. “Sweet lady, I’m Westerncontinents master of puppets, w-” “She said ‘sworded’, Petaeiouyr!” Ded snapped. “She’s not a dirty potato-muncher like you, she can pronounced her Ts.” “Then whatever shall we do?!” One of the bandits turned to his chum. “What?” “Oh… sorry. Getting carried away.” The leader shook his head and turned to the merry men and one merry maid from Maureen. “Oi, you lot of ponces!” “Actually!” Barming retorted, sheathing his sword, which sounds like something about a penis. “We’re princes, not pon-” The bandit leader lobbed a stone in his face. Mercifully, it was Emma Stone, but she still came at him right in the face, so it still hurt even if he went all tingly in the gonads. “So, what are you all ding here? Doing here, I mean. Now I just sound Irish.” Baelful nodded, understanding. “We march for Castle Evilname,” Barming replied, having finished with Emma Stone in approximately 1.18 seconds because he was a sucker for redheads. “But all our sources tell us we are vastly outnumbered.” Toffrey balked or baulked. “What sources?” “Birds tweet and spiders… slithhhh, uh, scurry,” Varygood said enigmatically, checking his iPhone. “Noble peasantman,” Barming called to the noble peasant man. “Will you join our cause and help us rid the world of this foul evil that besmirches itself upon our shining golden shields of gold and shiny inscrutability of good against the forces of darkness in this once glorious world of ever-growing menace and ominous prophecies of-” “Yes, yes, we’ll help!” the bandit snapped. “Excellente!” “On one condition,” said the bandit leader, rising to his full height of 4 foot 9, which was still taller than Barming, but then again, he was stood on a rock, so maybe that helped. “Name it,” Barming said. “Only if you beat us at a Battle of the Bands competition.” Barming grabbed a rubber band off Rickety Park and flicked it up the bandit’s nostril. “Done. We win. Let’s go.” “Obviously not that kind of band,” said the bandit, snorting the plastic out of his face. Barming rolled his eyes. “You had to go and be difficult.” “Wouldn’t be a very impressive finale if I weren’t, would it?”

[b]Part 7[/b] It was dark. King Fisher couldn’t tell much else, because he had no-one to tell it to. Or maybe he did, and he just couldn’t see them. “...It’s dark,” he hazarded. “It’s dark.” “I know.” “I know.” “You know whoever you-” “You know whoever y-” “Damnit, man, stop interrupting-” “Damnit man-” “I’ve had it up to just about here with your backchat, young man!” The basement door slammed open. King Fisher blinked in the blaring light, or similar words. “Whoooo are you talking to?” “Spandex?” “He’s up here,” the Earl replied. “I just said what I said in an exaggerated voice. More exahaggerated than my usualarrrrf.” “It’s… yeah, I dunno.” “Did he aaaask for meeee?” Fisher heard Spandex breathe. “Not exactly,” Earl said. “He called your name.” “Which could be aaaasking for me… Ass-king for meheheheeee.” “Dear god,” Fisher wailed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Earl said sincerely. “Were you writing a letter down there? Would you like a moment?” “Um… not if it’ll be all dark again.” “Oh, silly me,” Earl realised, holding a powdered hand to his forehead. “You can’t write in the dark. Well, you could, but it’d probably look like hjewhfhbjsbdfjvbjhbw mbsjvdj]e dvs ds sdv dv dfgdf . flwklmvklfknvmdksnvklnjnbkd or something.” “That’s a lot of Ds,” Fisher noticed. “Well, duh!” Earl pontificated or something. “I want yours, young man! In fact, let’s get started.” He began his poncy march down the stairs, Spandex and the goblin thing in tow. “Here, I have a walrus and a hare. No, not Spandex and Parf, an actual walrus and a hare, in my hands, just very small. Which would you like licking your spine?” “Uh,” said Fisher. “Neither.” “WITCH.” “I’m a weeeezzaaaard,” Spandex said. “Never mind you,” Earl snapped. “Parf! Prepare the condiments!” “Yes, Early bird.” “Condiments?” Fisher quaked. Not quacked. Not this time, at least. “Are you going to eat me?!” “Eeeen one seeeense,” Spandex salivated. “Don’t be absurrrrd,” Earl flarted. “No, this is just a delicious lube for the walrus. We’re sticking his tusks up your derriere, see.” “[i]Why would you do such a thing?![/i]” Fisher flailed. “You ordered an attack on that poor teenager,” Earl said. “We can’t let that happen.” “Why?!” Fisher roared. “Are you engaged in some sort of massive, spoilerific plot to overthrow me as rightful ruler and dictator of all the lands under the sky?! “Not really, no,” Parf said. “We’re just decent human beings.” “Noooow,” Spandex purred. “Yoouu deciiiide: waaaalrus, or haaaare.” “!”£$%^&*()” “I’m not sure I understood that,” Parf said. “Now everyone, just be nice and quiet!” calmed Earl. He leaned closer than ever to Fisher, pretty much setting up shop in his earhole and selling wax to candlemakers. “Listen to the gods.” “...They’re just breathing at the moment, it sounds kinda gross.” Earl stood bolt straight, struck a Saturday Night Fever pose in his fuschia and gold jacket, and snapped his finger. “I command… [i]BOTH[/i], [b]AT THE SAME TIME![/b]”

[b]Part 6[/b] The march on Twatty Castle had been a long one for Prince Barming. And indeed the rest of his retinue, if retinue was the right word, which I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Gang. Sure. “Squiddington,” Barming hailed his octopedal companion. “How much further must we heft this baggage? Any cell will do.” “Why not toss him in with this lot?” the squid queried. “They could use the meat. And I could use… uh, should stop quoting Halo 2.” “What baggage?” hollered one of the Nojoy ...the only Nojoy chap. “Your cock,” Ramher Bolt-On chortled. “Although I’d hardly call it ‘baggage’: it’s no bigger than my little finger.” “Your Graces,” irished Lord Baelful. “We should listen to potatoes… Prince Barming. See what he has to say on the matter.” “Thank you,” Barming nodded. “Uhh, whoever you are, because you weren’t in my last scene. Y’know what, lads and ladies because of the two slammin’ hotties riding… brrrrrh, gonna need new underwear. Anyway, yes, this ride has been rather gruelling, so what say we take a little break and have a Kit-Kat Chunky or eight?” “Hard to have a little break with a Chunky,” remarked Tyranny Bannister. “Are you suggesting we keep riding until our arse cheeks are redder than rose blossom?” Margaryan TytheknotwithalltheyoungBannisters giggled. “Think I’d be down for that.” “I never thought I’d say this,” Tiramisu Because Tyranny Implies He’s Bad began. “Better never have I more wished to be one of my nephews.” “Enough of this disgusting discourse,” hissed his sister, Cerveysays, also popping into this scene despite not having been present before. “Prince Barming, shall we make our camp?” “Can you all please stop teleporting in?” Barming barmed. “This is supposed to be fantasy, not sci-fi.” “Could be good ol’ fashioned magic,” shrugged Vasectomy Barbaryan, because I couldn’t think of a good pun on Daenerys. “Even so, none of you are helping,” Barming gestured hopelessly. “Cerveysays, you won’t fight, you’ll just drink, drink, and drink some more.” Tiramisu laughed heartily. “Blood may be thicker than water, dear sister, but wine is sweeter than both.” “I can handle a socially-stunted child with a vitamin D deficiency,” Cerveysays wasped. “If his bawling handservants don’t put you off first,” Tiramasu returned. Cerveysays rolled her eyes. Barming clapped his hands. “Right, then, well, then, camp, then.” “Wait,” Douchenozzle said. “Look around you. It’s all hilly; we’re near the Eerie Eyrie. Bandit territory.” Tiramasu shifted uncomfortably on his saddle. Oballs-he-blam!-edthatup Wal-Martell ambled his horse between Lady Margaryan and D’nowhattocallher. The ladies blushed and then covered their horse saddles with moisture, before Oballs glared at the hills. “THEY’LL -blam!- HER. THEY’LL MURDER HER. THEY’LL KILL HER CHILDREN.” “wat” “Damnit, cover’s blown.” “WAT” “Only joking!” A clownish buffoon leapt from the rocks ahead, sporting an eagertistical grin, that’s a word I’m inventing for myself, but no, this guy isn’t meant to be me, that’d be Barming with his silly narcissism. Well, I say clownish: on closer inspection, he appeared to be garbed in a checkered flag, with jet black hair getting in his eyes and making him say ‘Ow’ a lot. Also, he seemed to have recently tried to eat a stapler, judging by the metal on his lips. “You,” Barming said, pointing his sword, Tarty’s Wrath, which was actually what I called my warhammer in Skyrim, at the weirdo. Commas. “You are one of… That guy we’re going to kill’s men.” The emo laughed, which was unsettling because he hadn’t done it in a couple of years. So it sounded more like a gurgling mountain goat, if you see what I mean. Hear what I mean. Whatever. “You’re not killing anyone today.” “No shit,” Barming said. “We’re still a week away from the place.” “And winter is cooming,” Don Slow reminded him. “That won’t help.” “And that thing too, yes.” “Okay… well, you won’t be killing anyone… ever again? Does that cover it?” Barming’s group of Game of Thrones parody characters nodded, satisfied. Well, Ramher was a bit miffed by this premature declaration. As was Toffrey. And Tyrant Bannister. And Wander Fray. And Allisern Thorne-inJon’sarse. And Aryakiddinme. And George RR Martin himself. In fact, there was only a few people in both Westerncontinent and Essisforsex that weren’t at least a little peeved. “Anyway, here’s why: “My lord has an army,” the boy began, grinning darkly. “The largest army this world has ever known. Forces from all over the world have come to our aid against your cruel, judgemental king, and we shall not be cowed into rolling over dead simply because you don’t like us. We have always kept to ourselves. But now you march on our city with the intention of destroying us, simply because you don’t like us? We will stand, and this world with us, to defy your arbitrary culturcide, and allow the peoples of this land to leave as they wish, in peace and happiness.” “Culturcide,” Boy Nojoy said. “You made that up, didn’t you?” “No, it’s a word. Google it. I did, when I wrote that speech.” “Pfft,” Nojoy pffted. “Don’t believe you.” “You don’t have to,” the boy said. “It’s true.” “Don’t care,” Nojoy ploughed on. “There’s ...like, at least 8 of us, and one of you. Two, if you count your little pussy king.” “Pussy king,” the emo messenger considered. “That’s a good title.” “Taken,” Tiramisu smirked. “Jointly,” Oballs added. “We’ll beat the shit out of yeh,” Nojoy concluded triumphantly. “Oh yeah,” the messenger nodded sarkily. “Yeah, our army is in fact me, His Precociousness, and a potty-mouthed gnome called Terry. He’ll have you, so he will, unless of course Oballs kicks him over first. Yeah, no, we’re going to get annihilated. Oh dear. I should go warn my king. You mean, mean moodies. I… You’ll… [i]-blam!- off[/i].”

[b]Part 5[/b] “r[i]e[u][b]cal[/u]CU[/b]-l[b]A[/b]Ti[/i]ng[b].[/b]” “Goddamnit, shut up.” Fisher’s road to the Earl’s house had been a long one: first, he’d gone the wrong way on the motorway, resulting in a 118-car pile up, the third largest he had ever caused and the fifth he’d ever seen. Then, when he went to get a snack from the local Tesco, he’d accidentally flirted with the cute cashier and got himself thrown out for showing her a dick pic he’d taken on the spot. And now here he was, stuck in traffic between a bright yellow SUV and a fire engine with deafening sirens blaring Wrecking Ball. “[b][u]REcalcul[i]8[/i]ig[/u]n.[/b]” And now his Sirtana was playing up. “GG, Applosoft. Or maybe Applesoft is a better portmanteau.” “When it is safe to do so, pull over.” “Weight watt.” Fisher glanced around, trying to see past the clitoral-shaped bush next to him. “Oh… number 1718. Right, Sir Tana, seems like we’re here.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Did you say: seams lie queer hear?” “Yes, sure, whatever.” “Here are search results for: seams lie queer hear. Did you mean: seams like queer hear?” “No, you piece of wank, if I meant that, I’d have said it.” “Well, people make mistakes sometimes, I thought maybe you had.” “Do you want to be shoved up my arse again?” “You haven’t done it a first time.” Fisher sighed, and rang the Earl’s doorbell. His was a stately home, compared with a box. I.e. a pretty bog-standard suburban home. It was red, for some reason. Oh, yeah, no, most houses are kinda red these days. Never mind. The door was a deep purple as it swung backwards, and the colour kept changing which is why it was described like that. Maybe. Fisher was met with the overpowering scent of cornucopic floristry, an art long since lost to his own kingdom, replaced instead by farting into air vents. A gargantuan chest greeted him, purple and ...like, rivened with gold. Ribboned, maybe. Ribbed? Easy, tiger. Anyway, yeah. The saggy great face, with its hooked nose and perching eyeglasses greeted Fisher. “Good… noon? Uh, you must be Chris.” Chris eyed him cautiously, if it were indeed Chris. If not, someone eyed him cautiously. “Ooooooh, Paaa-aarf? Parf!” There was a thumping down the stairs. “Yes, your earliness?” puffed a tiny goblin man the colour of pallid ear wax. “We have a visitor,” the Earl pointed out. “Take his coat. But leave the rest of his clothes on his person. For nowhmhmhmhmhnaaaarrrhhharrrrrrr.” “Yes, your earliness.” “So, you’re actually Chris, then?” Fisher asked, letting Goblin Gollum take his coat. “Oh, please, darling,” the earl flounced in a melodramatic voice and gait and other words too. “I’m the Insatiable Earl; I received your carrier turtle, Spandex sent you to hold ...relaaaaations with meh.” “You two do talk like bloody stereotypes,” Fisher said. “It’s a bit offensive, really.” “Don’t take it so seriously, dahling,” the Earl parfed onto a chaise-longue. “Now, how can I help you… out of those blasted rags and into something a little more comfortablemhmhmhmhmhmnaaaaarrfy-harfy-har. “?” “You’ve got men,” Fisher began. The Earl gasped. “Well,” he began, scarfling down a bushel of grapes. “One doesn’t get away with much these days, does one?” “Oh shut up, you fairy,” Fisher snapped. “You have an army.” “I have a Hulk.” Fisher stared at the ponce bizarrely. “...Is that an innuendo?” “No. Parf turns into a Hulk when he’s… uhh, what emotion shall we attach to you today, Parf? Nonplussed. He doesn’t know what it means, oh, the irony!” “Yeah, I do.” “Wh-” Earlchrisman looked down at his meagre servant, nonplussed. “I’ve been reading your dictionaries.” “How incredibly boring,” Earl and Fisher said at the same time. “Jinx! Jinx again! “Our mental synchronisation, can have but one explanation. You and I were just meant to be!” Fisher blinked. “Wait, what? Did I just say that? In sync? With you?” “Love is an open… now, Parf!” The hobgobbledeegook flung open the basement entrance. “DOOOOOOOOR!” Fisher howled with bewilderment and terror as the Insatiable Earl flung him into the doomy glepths. Uh, the doom… damnit. Gloomy depths.

[b]Part 4[/b] The march to Plogginton Square was a fun one for Prince Barming, his motorbike vibrating between his legs and giving him an erection. Only when he arrived at the city stables did he mount his horse and feel pretty disgusted with himself as his manmeat pressed against the saddle on its back. “Squire!” he called to his squid. “I mean, squid!” His cephalopod buddy oozed along behind him, leaving a trail of ink wheresoever he roamethed. “Pink leggy-legs?” “Any sign of the bannermen Bantermen?” “You said you’d meet them here at half 15, bro,” Squudwurd said, checking his Apple Watch. “It’s quarter to -9?” “Quarter to 9?” Barming frowned. “I got that a bit wrong, then, didn’t I?” “I said quarter to -9. Did you not hear the two syllables of - before 9? Very clear syllables they were and all.” “How is ‘negative’ two syllables?” Barming pondered tangentially. “Neg’tive. ‘Gative. Nega’. Oooerrfffrrr. Awfully close to a racial slur.” “Minus,” Squid said. “You idiot.” “Alright,” Barming said. “Back on track. Ish. What time is it now?” Squid sighed, checking the watch on one of his 8 limbs again. “By the laws of surreality that dictate this narrative inside a madman’s head, I declare it cow past @. ...No, wait…” He tapped it. “Sorry, my contacts are playing up. No, it’s… yeah, now it’s half 15.” Trumpets. Galloping. The thunder of a thousand riders rounding nearby corners and stampeding into view. A thousand divided by a hundred. Yes, that sounds impressive. The Bantermen of the Reach stood before Barming, noble and proud, ready to serve their rambling narcissist of a prince as he caught glimpses of himself in their armour, dashing no matter how distorted the image. It was like being with a walking house of mirrors. “Bannermen and Banterman,” Barming heralded grandly, arms aloft, fingers wide, willy hard. “Both, actually,” pointed out Banterman Park. “I welcome you all to the royal reach of ...whatever it was called, Something Square, to rally against the dread forces of emo boy Poncington in his weirdo castle. May I present to you: “House Park, the corgis! “House Bannister, the tabbies! “House Nojoy, the octopussies!” “Octopoedi!” “K. House TytheknotwithalltheyoungBannisters, the sexilicious Lady Margaryan. And its sigil, the dandelion! “House Wal-Martell, the headless bisexuals!” “House Barbaryan, the komodos!” “House Bolt-On, the Flayed Men!” Ramher Bolt-On, heir and air of House Bolt-On, grunted. “Uh, what?” “It’s a flayed man, isn’t it? Your sigil?” “It’s a man on a Wheel of Misfortune,” Ramher said. “We’re quite the daredevils up in the North, with our risque depictions of -blam!- accompanying the not-really-as-shocking-to-be-perfectly-honest-with-you depictions of flaying and decapitations. So, yes, we quite like a fun game of throwing knives at a dude strapped to a spinning wheel. That’s the sigil.” “Alright, then. Finally, friends and fam- more friends. Uhh, we have House Dickhead, the man and the woman, separate but equal but really just separate!” “Behold my double standard!” Douchenozzle Dickhead roared with pride. “So,” Barmington rubbed his hands together, relishing the battle ahead. “How many men do we have here with us?” “Including we bannermen?” asked Mr. Park. “8.” “Okaaaaaaaay,” Barming considered. “And what about without?” “None.” “...Which isn’t very clear; none is short for ‘not one’.’ He barked a laugh. Or laughed a bark. “So how many? 18 quintillion? One for every planet in-” “Okay, zero without.” Barming blinked. “So we have 8 men?” “Yeup.” “Really? You didn’t think to get anyone else?” “‘Course we did,” snapped Nowank Nojoy. “But no-one else would join us in this admittedly silly crusade to go and kill a harmless emo kid.” “Pah, I say!” Barming declared. “Pah and fie and poppytwiddlepoo-pop. Let us march onward regardless, and meet emo boy with these 8 men that could easily beat him up without any additional forces.”

[b]Part 3[/b] An overwhelming aroma overwhelmed King Fisher as he knocked on the door. Probably should have written that differently, but oh well, it’s too late now. Wait, no, hang on… King Fisher knocked on the wooden door. Yes. That’s better. “Who eeees eeeet?” “The king,” said the king. “Ah, my keeeeng.” The latch clicked behind the door, and it swung backwards a fraction. Four thirty-twoths, let’s say. Thirty teeth? Well, this dude had dirty teeth, Icantellyathat. Not just because his writer is British. Shut up. “Come eeeen.” “Can you stop talking like that?” Fisher said. “It’s very annoying.” “I caaaan’t change my acceeeent, my Keeeeng.” “But you can change how bloody long you say your vowels.” “But my Keeeeng,” the old man (he was old. And hunched) teased stereotypically. “Theeees makes me sound foreign and mysteeeerious.” “Makes you sound like a dick, to be honest,” the keeeeng returned, similar to a Tolkien book. “And why is it always four letters?” “Fuuuun faaaact: the woooord ‘four’, eeeet eeees four letters loooong.” “Shut up. I’m here on business, weeeezaaaard. Oh, bastard!” The king angrily shoved the door open and marched into the wizard’s laboratorium, a bizarro room filled with strangely shaped equipment, colours of all spaces and words. Yuh-huh. “I have a naaaame, you knoooow,” the wizard snapped longly. “Yes, I know, Spandex. My brother only hired you because he liked the way you looked in it.” “A paaiinful meeeemory.” “Can it, twerp. I need you to be on it, today. Can you do that for me?” “Thaaaat depeeeends,” Spandex began, “just what eeees ‘eeeet’?” He turned around, grinning lustily as he stroked a carbon fibre dildo. “None of those shenanigans,” Fisher snapped. “There are men’s lives on the risk here. At line. Uh, one of those two. Or rather the first half of the first one and the second half of the other. Alternatively, the first half of the second and the second half of the first.” Spandex pouted. “Iii- ...Eeees Keeeeng Feeeesher having a baaaad daaaay? Neeeed niiiice Spaaaandex to leeeend a haaaand?” “The only endurance potion I need from you is for my army, riding on Emo Castle,” Fisher said. “They have a long, hard… uh, ...ride… um, ahead of… [i]Will you stop winking at me?![/i]” “I have nooooo ideeaa whaaaat you meeaan, my Keeeen. g. I got a flyyyy in my eeyyee.” “Perhaps you’ll die,” Fisher snorted. “Wouldn’t that be a shame, you vowel-stretching human buttplug?” “Whaaaat is the purrrrpose of poweeeer, eeeef not to ...induuuulge?” “I’m sorry, did you say indulge or [i]dull[/i]? ...No, there’s nothing particular dull about ...never mind.” “Might I suggeeeeest, my Keeeeyandpeele, that you turn your atteeeentions from bullyiiiing meeee, to heeeelping your aaaarmy?” “That’s precisely what I came here to do, you… you… fig roll!” “Heeee groowwled, weeeeth anoooother eeeensult.” “Fine, fine!” Fisher snrowled. “So what can you do in here, to help them?” “Uuuuh, nothing, really,” Spandex said. “About the best I can do eeees breeeeng a meeeedgit to spontaaaaneous orrrrgasm.” “Then what the -blam!- am I paying you for?!” Fisher frarted. “Keeeeping yoouur househoooold smiiiiling?” “Right. Right. -blam!- this, -blam!- you, and -blam!- your butt.” Fisher turned smartly and began marching off. “Wait!” Spandex called. “Waaiit. I caaaaannot heeeelp you in such matteeeers, but I know one who caaaan.” “Someone,” Fisher said. “Normal people say ‘someone’.” “Oooone whoooo shares my appetiiiite for myyyy expeeeeriments. And pays me as much as you do too,” the wizard added quickly. “Um. He leeeeves in Fukary…. they call heeeem ...The Insatiable Earl.” Fisher sighed, staring at Spandex deadpan. “So, Earl, then?” “No, Chris. But… heeees reputaaaation, eeeet preceeeedes heeeem in my ciirrcles.” “Please stop talking about your anus,” Fisher cringed, holding up a hand. Spandex rolled his eyes. “I deeeedn’t mean [i]thaaaat[/i] circle.”

[b]Part 2[/b] As expected, Geribald found Prince Barming in the yard, practicing sword-fighting with the stable boy. Clackedy-clack, went the wooden swords. “Swipe, swipe, stab!” Barming told the boy. “Good! Then, attack its weak point for massive damage!” The boy braced himself. “Up the arse?” “Or… y’know, wherever you can,” Barming said. “To hurt them. It doesn’t have to be homoerotic.” “My Prince,” Geribald bowed. “Ah, Baldy!” Barming arrowed. “[b]Please don’t call me that[/b],” Baldy bolded. “My bald- [i]bad[/i]. My… mistake.” Barming slotted away his wooden sword. The stableboy shuddered. “What brings your shining dome out here?” “You do.” “Well,” Barming chuckled, whipping out his poofy little mirror. “I mean, I know the ladies line up just to hear me fart through a walkie-talkie, but I never anticipated these Pewdiepie looks working their charms on you too. I prefer a little more hair on the head, though. Something to…” He thrust his pelvis. “...hang on to, yano.” “I’ve been trying to craft some love handles for just such an occasion, My Prints,” Geribald lied. “But no. The king hath decreed or degreed or whatever: you are to lead the armies on Blackcrest Castle.” “Do you mean Edbucksplays Castle?” Barming asked. “That’s the one the king has been banging on about going to shrek, m8.” “Maybe. Is there actually a Blackcrest Castle, or am I just trying to come up with a cooler name?” “I dunno,” Barming considered. “You may have been thinking of Castle E. Rock, home of carpentry firm House Bannisters, or maybe Fort So. Or Fort Eewinks. Fort Itude. Keep Itte. Xurisinthuh Tower. Puns.” Geribald frowned. “What’s Puns?” “Oh, I was just remembering the last time I was at Xurisinthuh Tower, Puns is a quiet little village nearby. Fabulous bakers.” “I see. I’ll have to pay it a visit sometime. ...Now, are you going to get ready so we can move this shambling undead of a plot along?” Barming looked up from admiring his reflection in a puddle. “Hm? Oh yes, ready the men.” “That’s your job,” Geribald said.